Bound For Hell
by serenitysuicide
Summary: Duo reflects on a tradgic misson where he accidentally kills civilan children. Its to early in OperationMeteor to kill himself so he must find another way to cope. Contains graphic descriptions of self harm, alcohol abuse and bad language... Please R&R!


**Okiday. Quick one-shot. Been a while and I am going through another really difficult spot. So here it is at 11pm and I'm writing S.I. fan-fiction in order to try and stop myself from doing it. Kind of sets the theme doesn't it. However believe it or not this isn't Gravitation fan-fiction. LE GASP! There is no Hiro or Shuichi for miles around. I have never written any Gundam Wing fan fiction (or rather I have just years ago before I did my English degree and got f**ked up). So here it goes.**

**Warning - Contains GRAPHIC & TRIGGERING descriptions of self injury, depression, alcohol and children's corpses! You have been warned! Also some bad language.**

**Disclaimer - I wish I owned Gundam Wing... or rather I wish I could just run off and make Heero and Duo do naughty things to me... What they do I will leave up to your imagination :P**

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><p>"FUCK!" I banged my head hard against the seat in Death scythe's cockpit. How could I have been so stupid!<p>

The ruined OZ base's flames flickered in the viewer, its glow dancing across my scarred skin.

Civilians... There weren't supposed to be any civilians around here for miles. It was supposed to just be an OZ Aries production base, soldier's ONLY. How was I supposed to know that they were having a school trip in order to recruit new members! How was I supposed to know that they would be there!

I banged my head again, even harder this time. So hard in fact, that I saw small stars before my eyes. The voices of the children echoed in my mind. Memories of Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. The screaming. So many screams. My own terrified screaming deep within. Oh God, truly The God of Death had risen today!

I could feel the smoke outside fill my lungs. I could smell and taste the skin of the children and their teachers as it boiled and charred. Erasing their identities and destroying their futures. OZ was destroyed here but the cost was too much.

The doctors would have said that they were necessary casualties in order to achieve peace. But what good is a peaceful world with no one there to live in it. To run around and play in it. To exist in a world where they wouldn't have to be afraid.

Slowly I turned my Gundam and programmed it to return to the safe house that I was sharing with the other pilots. They would know about this soon enough. My mistake would be all over the news. I could almost feel their disapproving and hateful glares on me. Here was something else that I had fucked up and it wouldn't be the first time either. And of course, they were all better pilots than me. They would never have made a mistake like this. No, it's better I recovered from this travesty, so that I could bear to face them. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it back, wincing at the horrible burning taste. There was only one thing to do now...

I had promised Sister Helen, so many years ago, that I wouldn't stop until I had achieved peace. That was her wish. No matter how many casualties there had to be, I couldn't give up... Not yet. They would all go to heaven whereas I would go to hell. Once a peace was achieved, be it a hollow one or not, I could do what I wished with my life, even though there really was nothing left of it. And the guilt and emotional turmoil was driving me insane. How many people would have to be sacrificed for peace?

How many more people did I have to kill?

My body moved on auto pilot, guiding Death scythe to his temporary home. Slowly exiting and walking to my on-suite bedroom. This tends to be a sort of ritual for me most times after a mission. After all something usually goes wrong. There is no such thing as a mission without incident. The other pilots are either asleep or out fighting their own missions. Being used like pawns by the lords of plague, by our doctors and masters. Either way they wouldn't care would they...Would they though? They always say that military comrades were supposed to be like a family. But were not comrades. We just happened to be five teenagers that were all trained to use the same weapon and kill the same enemy. It was just coincidence that we thought it would be safer if we all co-habited for the moment. Of course Quatre would disagree. But then again, he was too kind. Kindness in our line of business however is a weakness.

My room just happened to be on the far side of one of Quatre's many family estates here on earth and due to his vast amounts of money; he was able to get a house that was 'off the beaten track' shall we say. We're lucky to see a car going down the road once a day. But this suited us fine. We all had our own space along with a shared living room and kitchen. If we wanted to be alone with our demons we could be. After all we were a house full of loners really.

Stepping into my bedroom, I threw off my sweaty priest-like clothes, leaving me clad in just my boxer shorts and grabbed a one of the many bottles of dark Rum I had stored in the bottom of my wardrobe along with a small black bag that I also grabbed, feeling relaxed somewhat as soon as a touched it.

Pulling the cork with my teeth, I took a deep swig. The alcohol burning the back of my throat to leave warmness behind that settled in my stomach. Alcohol just happens to be one of my many ways to cope, and trust me there is a few of them. It may not be my favourite but it's one of the more easily accessible ones and its one of the ways I managed to dull the pain in my heart and silence the screams of the innocent.

Slowly, my mind still hazy I made my way over to the adjoining bathroom and locked myself in before sliding down the back of the door to the floor, resting the bottle on the floor on one side and the bag containing my treasures on the other. The icy coldness hit me, raising goose bumps all over my skin, making the scars that covered my skin all the more visible under the harsh fluorescent light that flooded the bathroom. Yes, you would think that these scars are just the result of many years as a street rat, then training and the eventual working as a soldier. But if you look closer you would see that perhaps they are just a little too perfect, just a little too straight and just a little too self inflicted... A cut for every life that I have taken and a cut for all the times when I feel like I am going to be swallowed by the darkness. It's doing this to myself that helps me keep this promise to Sister Helen. Doing this helps me survive for just a little bit longer in order to complete my mission of peace. If I didn't then I'm sure I would have been dead long ago, after all, I don't deserve to live. Parting my skin with the use of a blade helps me cope with the pain... for now, though to be honest more and more it is doing nothing to my soul. And truth be told that drinking copious amounts of alcohol and cutting myself open are usually not a match made in heaven. Then again what would I know about heaven. I am bound for hell.

Taking a few more swigs I gingerly reach over to pick up my bag and place it in my lap but as I do so I catch a glimpse of my arm and the scar tissue upon it. Usually I don't look at, or rather inspect them. But on an occasion like this, three swigs of rum aren't enough to make my mind go foggy enough to ignore them.

The first thing you notice is that their white. Okay I admit I am a creature of the night and rarely tan even a little but these are so white that they contrast against my own skin*. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some are thick, some are thin, some short and others long. The thicker ones however tend to be more raised and noticeable. This is where I have cut so deep and spread the skin so much that scar tissue has had to stitch the skin together, there have been days too where I have pulled off the scabs just to see them bleed. To remind myself that I am indeed actually alive. Fascinated I raise my hand up to stroke them, drawing my finger over the most noticeable ones. Even now are as sensitive as the day that I inflicted them upon myself.

It's not just this arm, but the other matches in horrific symmetry. Even the tops of my arms have not escaped my self-destructive behaviour. Though to be honest people, from a distance, just think I have blotchy skin most of the time... If only they knew. Or even cared enough to ask.

My legs, mainly my thighs are in a similar state. Covered by my boxers now, but I know that what lies beneath the black cotton is just as shocking and disgusting as the rest of my body. If I was a 'normal' person I would probably wonder why anyone would do this to themselves. But I'm not a 'normal' person and I know exactly why I do this. I know that there are plenty of people out in the world that do the same as I and I am not judging them. Everyone has their reasons and if it helps it helps. I know that this helps me.

More rum and it's time to live up to the inevitable. I know I won't be able to relax until I press that cold hard metal against my skin. I haven't decided where yet. Never too near something where I might actually kill myself. I can't die yet... So the top of my left forearm will have to do for now.

The bag before me contains every blade I have ever used, except one. It's always best to have one hidden away for emergencies I find. The pocket knife that Solo gave me so many years ago is hidden deep inside Death scythe's cockpit. Part of me knows that he would disapprove and the other that he would understand what the alternative would be if I didn't. Inside the bag is a treasure of all sorts of blades: knives, which tend to be quite clumsy and razor blades which are more controllable and easily hidden. Searching carefully through, I find a small while paper envelope containing a double edged blade. Brand new and glistening. A device that would easily destroy my skin if I let myself get that far.

Would I describe my skin as mutilated? I'm not quite sure. Like I said there are many people out there which have done far worse to their skin. But some people describe tattooed skin as such. I think to anyone who cuts their skin should only ever be described as 'unique'. For you are you...

Another swig of rum... I feel like a pirate. A space pirate sailing the astronomical winds in a Gundam seeking OZ ships and buried treasures upon the colonies.

A deep breath and...

Slash.

Another slash and another.

Three long deep ravines along the skin of my upper arm, not even filling with blood yet. Enough to count for the teachers but what about the innocent children. I don't know how many there were. There are just so many screams. So many voices. Some from the other times and some from this.

More cuts. More. And more.

So many, too many to count. Too much blood to even try to.

My arm is dead, impossible to raise it, even if I wanted to.

Another swig of rum with my free hand and then more cuts.

I need stitches for a lot of these. I know I do but for now I shall just have to clean them.

Clumsily I stand up using my good arm to support me. The blade forgotten upon the blood stained tiled floor. Turning the shower on to its highest setting I fall into the bottom of shower cubical curled up into a foetal position. Blood gushing from my arm, mixing with the water and diluting.

Focusing on the pale pink liquid as it swirled round the plug hole I let my mind wander and be at peace for as long as I could. The beating of the shower almost silencing the children.

But I don't cry... Boys don't cry...

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><p><strong>* Okay ._. Maybe I was describing them with my sleeves rolled up. So this is basically a description of my left forearm... ENJOY.<strong>

**Rum, rum and more rum. Ive been drinking a hell of a lot if rum lately and now so has Duo. I hope he has some asprin for tomorrows hangover. And Ive just realised that he's an under aged drinker. Such a bad example for the rest of society. Anyway surprisingly this has only taken two hours. I don't feel that much better for it really just a horrible sinking feeling in my chest and an echoic sort of feeling in the middle of my head. Oh well. Thank you for reading please R&R!**

**IMPORTANT! - Please note that I do not wish to portray depression and self injury in a positive light. If you are suffering please seek help. Although I can relay my experiences through other people's characters I am NOT a therapist of any kind. It is important that you seek help. Reading any of my badly written fan fiction should not be classed as therapy. If you do S.I. please ensure that you practise it safely and cleanly. If you wish to know more then there are many informational websites out there that can help. On my profile is a little history of me and my experiences if you're curious. And if this fic has indeed touched you in some way and you do not wish to put anything in a review then please feel free to PM me. I will try and reply to all messages. And remember that no matter who you are and what you do, and even though I have never met you, that I love you. x**


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